


"Shhhh-whisper! The Roses Have Gone."13-btvs-ats-ucsl

by iskierka



Category: Angel The Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskierka/pseuds/iskierka





	"Shhhh-whisper! The Roses Have Gone."13-btvs-ats-ucsl

title: "Shhhh-whisper! The Roses Have Gone."  
author: Briar  
briargoeth@yahoo.com  
feedback: yup, critics welcome.

fandom: Jossverse/s.  
rating: G  
slash: implied.  
archive: lists.  
@------~-/-------

adj 1: not to be placated or appeased or moved by  
entreaty;"grim determination"; "grim necessity";  
"Russia's final hour, it seemed, approached with  
inexorable certainty"; "relentless persecution"; "the  
stern demands of parenthood [syn: grim, relentless,  
stern, unappeasable, unforgiving, unrelenting] 2: not  
capable of being swayed or diverted from a course;  
unsusceptible to persuasion; "he is adamant in his  
refusal to change his mind"; "Cynthia was inexorable;  
she would have none of him"- W.Churchill; "an  
intransigent conservative opposed to every liberal  
tendancy

\------------------------------

 

Darla dislikes Russia because the land is cold and  
hard and flat. The people taste dour; the outfits are  
uncomfortable, and nothing appears to have any weight  
or consequence beyond an ever-turning wheel of bad  
operas and stale flavor.

Princesses and czars seem to be falling every where,  
but what of it?

She wants new combs for her hair. Dru screams of green  
bees, occasionally.

She hums Spanish madrigals to herself while awaiting  
for Drusilla to abate in her five-part choruses  
dedicated to Siberian eggs.

On the way to market, a Cossack was leading a tiger by  
the chain. "Beautiful, " Spike had murmured, gazing  
into its eyes, as it had shied away like a frightened  
horse, except with a growl. That baring of teeth and  
exhibition of male temper almost matched the pride  
with which Angelus elbowed his way in front of the  
young and wiry bull, to stare at the large, big cat.

Darla believes that both of her boys would have liked  
to pet it. Drusilla believes that her visions allowed  
the tiger to melt into her Sire and her Childer, with  
Grandmum's face twitching like the giant cat's ass.

She wanted to peer into the hole. She wanted to poke  
it, and briefly wondered- but not with fairy tales,  
because they are sure to get it all wrong, the last  
time around-- if something might come out along the  
trees as such, perhaps not so much within her line of  
sigh.  
Dru thinks Grandmum should bray; it's better that way.

The ice is cold. Tastes almost like frost, and a  
bitter root.

She shrugs; Darla continues to bristle.

*

Drusilla doesn't pretend to understand it at all.  
Russia seems awfully cold; Daddy and sweet, baby Spike  
like to roll around in the snow at all hours of the  
moon- this seems a most terrible inconvenience.

She tries to claw Gran-mamma every once in a while,  
and only then when the moon is bloated and blue, but  
not so much with nasty petticoats and the pixies don't  
agree when the fur is coarse.

It is then that she slips away, into the woods where  
the rabbits are grown scarce, and the witches are much  
too shy.

Drusilla plays in the dark, woodsy, malcontent cherry  
forests-- ever alone, singing a sad happy song from  
her wrists through her heart... a fanciful dream, a  
harmony of eggs.

(fin.


End file.
